


Vœux

by Val_Creative



Category: Cinderella (1950), Cinderella - All Media Types, Disney - All Media Types, Disney Princesses
Genre: Action, Alcohol, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, BAMF Women, Community: disney_kink, F/F, Femslash, Homophobia Doesn't Exist, Humor, Light Angst, Meet-Cute, Mild Language, Period-Typical Sexism, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: A retelling where Prince Charming is actually a woman and a knight and Cinderella takes after her father’s stubbornness.
Relationships: Prince Charming/Cinderella (Disney)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 49





	Vœux

**Author's Note:**

> OHHHHHH. I'M EXCITED ABOUT THIS ONE. I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE TOO. I saw [this prompt](https://disney-kink.livejournal.com/9516.html?thread=5883436#t5883436) on the Disney Kink Meme and went with it. Didn't get to a higher rating but that's okay. Please give me any thoughts you have! I would love to hear! 💖💖💖
> 
> (The translation of the title Vœux is "Wishes" in the French language.)

*

Cinderella holds her dreams in her heart and resists murmuring them into the wind. Your dreams are, after all, a wish.

From high in her attic-tower, she gazes down to the lines of white-bark poplar trees and willows filling with summer's golden light. Everything seems so slumberous and warm. One of the bluebirds flutter to Cinderella's throat, nuzzling against her.

"Oh, Mother!" Drizella shrills. She bounds from the chateau's front doors. "Did you hear?! Did you hear what's happened?!"

Lady Tremaine raps her walking cane. "Yes, child. I have," she monotones. Cinderella can hear their voices drifting up from below her window. "The king has opened the gates and welcomed his heir from a long voyage across the sea."

"There's an invitation!" Anastasia squawks, hugging the parchment to herself and spinning clumsily. "To a royal ball! _Tonight_!" She hums off-key, pretending to dance alongside someone else. "I'm going to dance with the Prince! We are going to dance all night and share true love's _kiss_! And then he'll ask me to be his _bride_! Ohhhh~ I'll give him even more _princes_ ~!"

Drizella frowns and crosses her arms. "I heard she was a princess."

"Well, I heard he was a prince!" Anastasia insists, huffing. "The most _charming_ of any prince in the Nine Kingdoms! Handsome and imposing! Strong as a ox!" She sighs dreamily, fluttering the royal invitation to her face. "He's even killed men in battle!"

Cinderella wrinkles her nose. How frightful.

Lady Tremaine claps her hands repeatedly to get their attention. "Regardless of whom the king's heir is… you, my darling daughters, you must master grace and nobility and _self-control_ in order to impress the court. Your beauty must outshine all of the other girls. Or you will not be wed." She leers suddenly, yelling up, "Cinderella! Cinderella… where is that horrid girl…"

Soon enough, all three of them yell high-pitched for Cinderella.

"It'll take more than a pretty dress for Anastasia and Drizella," Cinderella says quietly. She doesn't mean harshness. There seems to be no man or woman, or anyone, alive who could satisfy her stepsisters. Or her lady stepmother for that matter.

Cinderella takes one last look at the palace on the horizon. She watches its bright white marble glow against the fading sun.

Hope fills her.

*

Dread crawls within her gut. If Henri could have avoided coming home, it would have been so.

She would have preferred to live out in the woods. Hunting and scavenging. Not with the company of men Henri was familiar with, of course. They belittled her and kicked dirt in her face and challenged duels to prove themselves ( _and failed_ )… but on her own.

Charming and chivalrous, the knights from the Nine Kingdoms sneered. Valiant. Loyal enough to die by the sword.

 _Prince Charming_ — a jest, a lark, a bittersweet endearment. She's always looked more man than woman. Taller than the guards. Narrow hips. Broad in jaw and shoulder length. Dense with muscle from her knight's training and four seasons of journeying.

The gates lay open for her. Henri gallops in on her stallion, across the bridge and through the palace's curtain walls.

"Your Majesty!" comes a holler. The first thing she recognizes is the crimson sash and irregular amount of thick, black facial hair. "Very good, your Majesty! Welcome!" The Grand Duke bows over himself as Henri dismounts, handing her reins to one of the stable-boys running up. He's as formal as ever. And reeks of tobacco. "Your father, the King, awaits your presence in—"

"— _the King waits for no one, you pompous fool_!" Henri's father booms. He marches out, wearing a pair of dark trousers and a similiar long-sleeved tunic as Henri. Spotless white linen. A deep-plunging collar unlaced and revealing their sternums.

Henri sighs, walking into a corridor.

"Is that any manner—" the King cuts himself off, tight-lipped. He blocks his daughter. "— _hold the trumpet!_ What have you done!?"

"Pardon?"

"Your hair, damn you!" the King bellows, reddening. "What have you _DONE_ to your _HAIR_!?"

Henri's fingers instinctively rub into cropped, dark brown hair. She never liked it longer than brushing the tops of her ears. Her father refused to allow Henri to cut it, ordering the handmaidens to plait and brush and wash her hair reaching to Henri's knees.

"It's a military encampment, Father." Henri dodges a kitchen servant, her nostrils flaring. "All in attendance must look the same."

They're all cooking for tonight's spectacular feast. It's been days and days of carrot stew and onions and dried rabbit meat for her. Henri can already imagine the silvered platters of honey-dripping apricots and berries and slices of caramelized, nut-topped apples. Red currants and pomegranates. Smoky, herb-crispy mounds of pork and veal and quail sprinkled with cayenne.

"You're not _everyone_! You are _THE_ princess of this kingdom!"

The monocle over the Grand Duke's eye trembles.

"Oh dear…"

Henri turns to the King in mid-step as he grows more and more furious. She remains politely levelheaded. "I am aware. Truly. I am." Henri turns back around, as if dismissing him. "I have not the chance to forget since you remind me every moment you have—"

She grabs one of the chalices from a servant's tray in passing and gulps down the ale. It tastes of long pepper and bayberries.

"— _and what in heaven's name is THAT_ —!"

The King jabs a finger towards Henri's face. Around her temple and left eye, and all down her cheek, is a webbing of bruises. Pink-swollen skin. Three or four little wounds scabbing over. Henri blanches. "It's nothing, Father," she mutters. "I slipped from my horse."

A soft, disbelieving laugh from the Grand Duke behind them.

(It's admittedly not a _good_ lie. Henri completed the beginning of her riding lessons before learning to walk.)

"I'll tell you what it is—it is a _stain_ upon your face! A _deformity_!" the King says, reddening further. "There is a royal ball tonight!"

"Sire, please!" the Grand Duke wails. "Your blood pressure!"

Henri finishes the ale, setting down the jeweled chalice onto another servant's tray and giving them a nod. She heads into another corridor. One of the bare private rooms. It leads to another room displaying all of the Queen's portraits.

" _Get out! Make yourself useful for once!_ " the King roars to a perplexed Grand Duke, banging shut the twin, oak doors.

He calms and follows after his daughter.

"You must marry," the King urges, trying to soften his gruffness. He joins Henri plopping down and clasping her hands together on a lavender, silk chaise. "I need grandchildren before I die. You know your father's time in this world is limited."

A smile quirks Henri's expression.

"Does that amuse you?" the King adds, smiling and nudging Henri's torso with his elbow playfully.

"I want to fall in love," Henri confesses wistfully. "Like you and Mother did."

"Poppycock! You will find love _tonight_!" He pats her hand consolingly. "You will produce an _heir_ to this kingdom and—!"

Henri's fingers slip away from his. She sighs, tilting her head back and dragging her hands over her face.

Of course. That's all her father cares about.

That's all the King has _ever_ cared about since Henri was old enough to know what marriage was.

"You do not need to worry about their sex. You know I care not. Magic will provide a way. It always has for our family." The King misreads her frustration. "It's how your mother was able to bear you. She was delighted."

Henri slumps over, focusing on the portraits.

Her mother had such wild, orangish-red hair. She danced horribly. Her eyes were aquamarine waters of the sea. Her smiles in the oil paintings felt a bit off and secretive. Like she was trying to convey to Henri something important and wished for Henri herself to discover it. She always wore heart-shaped brooches and she was always _kind_. Peasant or royal or stranger, it mattered not.

"I miss her."

"As do I, my dear," the King mumbles, dabbing the tears off his cheek with a handkerchief. "As do I."

Henry straightens up, inhaling.

"I will attend, Father. You know I will," she says. "But you must allow me to decide who I will marry tonight." Before he can open his mouth, Henry interrupts firmly, "And you must allow me to wear as I please. That is what I will."

(She will not be humiliated in gowns and pearlescent stockings.)

"… Very well."

*

Princesses and princes and noble ladies flock together. They twitter and giggle about a very masculine royal attending the ball.

The King's only heir. A dark-eyed, dark-haired princess dressed like a prince.

_How marvelously unusual!_

Curious minds tend to wander. They find this mysterious Prince Charming yawning into their palm, appearing bored.

Flutes and horns sound merrily all around the dancers waltzing with their partners. Gilded ornaments… expensive and precious stones like ivory and sapphires and rubies as big as a blacksmith's fist… cloth of gold and samite and purple waistcoats…

The evening has just begun.

*

Cinderella has never seen such a lovely sight.

The palace feels ornamented and lavished with deep magenta and frosty white and pewter from the inside. She ascends the innermost staircase leading towards a ballroom, mindful of her glass slippers.

Fairy Godmother took her dear sweet time on this gown. A wide and curved silhouette with heavy, looped bustles on either side of Cinderella's hips. Layers of delicate petticoats underneath. Silvery blue fabric that feels weightless and glimmers like diamonds. Cinderella nervously adjusts the black, satin ribbon pinned to her neck, holding her breath.

She's masquerading as a princess — _nearly_ — but without any doubt, Cinderella wouldn't be identified by her step-family.

The King's ballroom has marbled blue floors and iridescently pink pillars of marble. There's no king in sight, but plenty of guests. Cinderella discovers herself staring mesmerized at someone surrounded by others. They wear a cream-colored jacket with gold-corded epaulettes and a gold belt. Crimson-dyed breeches with a gold, felt stripe. Plain and white gloves.

Two of the ladies meander by Cinderella, fanning themselves and rolling their eyes.

_"Prince Charming…"_

Is that the King's heir? Or another prince from another kingdom? Or a prince at all?

Cinderella heeds the hour chiming from a glass clocktower, but decides against entering the ballroom. For now.

On her way deeper into the King's palace, she inspects a row of suits of newly polished armor. Cinderella extends out her hand, narrowing her blue eyes, grasping lightly around the handle of a weapon. At the same time, another hand rests gently onto her high, puffed sleeve. "Oh!" Cinderella gasps, backing away and clutching onto her skirts. _"Oh!"_

"Forgive me for startling you," Prince Charming murmurs, wide-eyed. "Please be careful. You may harm yourself."

Cinderella's visage brightens with a flush.

"Thank you. I—I'm not sure why I was so drawn to it."

"Do not concern yourself. It's quite fascinating really," Prince Charming says in glee, and Cinderella feels her heart skipping a beat. "That is a war hammer. That one over there is a throwing axe. I've practiced with jousting lances closely resembling these."

"All of this is… what a knight carries? What he wears?" she asks.

"To protect himself, yes. At the feet is riveted iron plates used as boots called sabatons. Cuisses and poleyns and greaves protect the legs."

Prince Charming, with the exquisite liveliness of a scholar, gestures to each piece of iron armor as it's named.

"Vambraces protect the lower arm. Rerebrace will protect the upper arm. A knight also wears a doublet and chainmail beneath the armor. It is made of many interlocking rings of iron and it will further protect against an enemy's attack on himself."

Cinderella studies the armor with rapt attention. "Is there any for women?"

Prince Charming goes solemn, face tightening.

"… Women cannot be knights, I'm afraid."

"Aren't you a knight?" she questions. Prince Charming hesitates and stammers, nonplussed by her frankness, and Cinderella's mouth forms into an 'O' of embarrassment. "Was I not supposed to say aloud that you're a woman?

"You could tell?"

Cinderella nods, biting on her lower lip.

"Was it my voice?"

"No."

"Then how?"

"I believe I knew when I first saw you," Cinderella says truthfully. "I heard someone call you Prince Charming, but… I knew."

A reassured laugh escapes Prince Charming's lips. She taps her heels, bowing deeply and presenting her hand.

"Would you… do me the honor of walking you through the gardens?"

Cinderella beams, curtsying. "The honor would be mine."

And that's when their fingers touch for the first time. A sweet, hot quiver travels up Cinderella's veins. Even through her silk gloves, she can feel what must be _love_ , _passion_ , _destiny_ calling to her as soon as Prince Charming gazes into her eyes.

*

Henri remembers spending her childhood outrunning her tutors and the King himself. Hiding herself in the mazes of gardens.

They stroll under the chestnuts and mulberry trees. Figs, laurels and dwarf pines. Owls coo softly from the branches. Squirrels and hares and mice and deer must be either asleep or scurrying about in the darkness. The moon hoists herself into the skies.

Henri shows the other woman where they grow rosemary for sweetened nectar and cherries for sour-sweet wines by the barrel.

She's so _beautiful_.

A fragile-looking swan, small and slender, but Henri can see the resilience behind this woman's eyes. Her confidence. Independence. Henri doesn't even know her name or where she lives, but would let her rule this whole kingdom. If she wished.

Everyone, far and wide, would see a century of kindness and peace everlasting.

"Were you injured?"

She reaches up for Henri's temple, stroking her fingertips to a particularly painful bruise. Her rouged mouth flattens as Henri grimaces. The only noise echoing is the marble fountain cascading its waters and the low hiss of crickets.

"The men I trained with… _well_ …"

Memories flood her. Henri lets out a choked, bitter laugh and a mocking smile.

"They were displeased with someone like me besting them." She touches over the other woman's fingers, lowering and cradling them into her own. "I was taller than everyone growing up. A better hunter, a better rider… but it meant very little if I was a _woman_." Henri frowns. "I'm not ashamed of being a woman… I just don't understand _why_ I have to look a certain way to be one…"

"I'm not sure what's worse… the preening nobles who want riches and splendor and my crown… or the men who hate me…"

Her true love furrows her brow in sympathy.

"It sounds difficult no matter what."

Perhaps it is too soon, but Henri can already imagine the mornings spent with her. Drowning herself in the powdery fragrance of that strawberry-blonde hair. She leans in, grasping both of the other woman's hands and dropping her forehead to hers.

"What's your name?" Henri whispers, eyeing her fondly.

"… Ella." There's grief in this, but also compassion and optimism. "My father called me Ella."

Henri leans out, clearing her throat and sweeping a hand into her dark, slicked-back bangs. Her chin lifts high. "Princess Henrietta Constance Élise Manon." A grin blossoms as Ella smiles tearfully. "But it would please me for you to name me Henri."

"May I have this dance, Henri?"

"You may, Ella."

Their hands meet. It feels as if there's pure and warm starlight alive inside her. Henri thinks she understands her Mother's portraits now. Why the little secretive smile. She bows her head low, waiting for a curtsy before pulling a flushing, smiling Ella towards her. They dance to their heart's content, whirling about in the dew-kissed grass, lost in each other's eyes.

Love shouldn't be wasted. Love should be _cherished_. Henri plans to ask for her hand in marriage before…

Midnight chimes from the glass clocktower.

*

Hope means everything. Hope is all Cinderella ever had while forced into servitude.

She weeps, exhausted and red-cheeked, helplessly striking palms to her attic-room door. "Stepmother! Stepmother, please!" Cinderella rattles the lock with both hands. "Please let me go! _Please_! You mustn't do this! You _mustn't_!"

No one is coming to save her. No one ever does.

" _Father_ ," Cinderella murmurs, gulping down a whimper.

She sinks slowly against the wooden door, her arms raised and face lowered. He wouldn't allow this.

Her bright blue eyes glance up, hardening like iron. No—he _wouldn't_ allow this.

Father was too clever and stubborn.

He told Cinderella — no, _Ella_ — he told Ella once to keep believing. To believe in her dreams, to hold them close, but they could not grant her what she desired most.

She must do it _herself_.

"Yes, I can," Ella declares, addressing her Father's shadow within her, getting to her feet. There's a basket of unwashed sheets in the corner of this room. She knots and fastens them together, dragging the line to her opened attic-window.

It's a long way down.

Ella knots an end to a steel-welded ring impaled into the windowpane. She can see the Grand Duke's carriage and its horses down the pathway leading to the chateau. He's already inside with to her step-family in the parlor and wailing when the iridescent-blue glass slipper shatters. Ella tucks its sister into her apron-pocket, throwing out her line of sheets.

She frowns in determination. Her bare feet mount the stone while climbing out the window and Ella's hands grip tightly.

"Mademoiselle!" comes a shout.

Ella inches herself down the sheet-line, halfway down the tower before realizing there's not enough to go further. She's trapped. Footsteps pound in the distance. More shouting. Ella closes her eyes, gritting her jaw. The wind blows into her soot-dirtied, blonde hair.

Her fingers release.

_"No!"_

Instead of the thorn-bush prickling her skin, she feels human heat. A pair of arms cradle her and then wrap around her, lowering her protectively. "Oh!" Ella breathes, gawking into brown, handsome eyes. " _Oh_!"

"You're—"

"Seize her!" One of the guards yell. They swarm, grabbing onto Ella's arms and yanking them behind her.

Henri stares confounded between her and the King's men.

"What are you doing!?" she accuses.

Drizella cackles, thrusting her head out of the parlor-window. "You're in for it now, _CINDER_ -ELLA!"

"I am dreadfully sorry, your Majesty," Lady Tremaine tuts, stepping out. She shakes her head and cuddles Lucifer. "Forgive us. My maidservant is a little thief. She was attempting to escape the room I locked her in for stealing my Drizella's necklace."

"No!" Ella protests. She struggles against the guards. Lady Tremaine's poisonously green eyes leer. "I am _no_ thief!"

"Take care. I'll have her rightfully punished—"

"If she says she's not a thief, I believe her," Henri announces, scowling. "Unhand her."

The guards obey.

Lady Tremaine attempts to convince her otherwise, babbling about Drizella and Anastasia's future prospects, and Henri walks around her. Tall and imposing. Everyone moves aside as the King's heir promptly addresses Ella, "May I ask you to empty your pockets?"

Ella's heart rabbits in her chest. She sniffles and does as bid, exposing her pocket-insides full of ashes.

"How about your apron?"

She slowly tugs out the glass slipper. Henri's brown eyes widen.

"You _are_ … aren't you?"

Ella shudders in place and sobs, but nods bravely. She tries to compose herself as a grinning Henri kneels, lifting Ella's leg slightly and easing the item onto Ella's naked foot blackened by soot. A perfect fit. There was never any doubt.

The mice and bluebirds chirp and squeak in victory. Drizella screams to her mother to _stop_ this, to do _something_ , to _kill_ them. Lady Tremaine's face darkens in a humiliated rage. Anastasia and the Grand Duke clap in excitement, bouncing on their heels. Henri clasps Ella into her muscular arms and spins them, laughing, kissing Ella's forehead and her wet eyelids. Over and over.

And the world spins right along.

*

"You speak so often of dreams and wishes, Ella…"

The wedding bells have not ceased their ringing. It's been a fortnight.

Henri dances with her in their bedchamber, draping them in silky white sheets and morning light. She exhales, pressing her mouth chastely to her wife's ear. "Tell me of yours," Henri whispers, touching with their hands and smelling Ella's powders.

"… It's already come true," Ella confesses, kissing Henri's smiling, opening mouth.

*


End file.
